


Kerosene

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Season/Series 05, hint of jaz if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 08:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11399268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: I'm very distressed by the fact that these two didn't have more scenes together in season 5. Of course, that's due to the fact that everything fell apart for them towards the end of season 4, but still -- I would have liked some sort of exchange that went along these lines. Anyway, enjoy!





	Kerosene

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very distressed by the fact that these two didn't have more scenes together in season 5. Of course, that's due to the fact that everything fell apart for them towards the end of season 4, but still -- I would have liked some sort of exchange that went along these lines. Anyway, enjoy!

“I’ll protect you from  
All the things I’ve seen  
And I’ll clean your wounds  
Rinse them with saline  
Kerosene”

 _Kerosene_ – Crystal Castles  
  


Kaz Proctor realizes that women hurt women, too.

There's a squabble in the yard. The shouting of voices reaches a deafening volume. Spittle spews from their mouths. From afar, the inmates resemble a pair of hyenas snapping open their jaws, showing off their teeth in a laughable way. Kaz's back presses into the coiled fence while she watches. Her arms fold tight across her chest, biceps unintentionally flexed. She can't stand to see the fists fly. Proctor takes a stand.

Proctor the Great Protector has a certain ring to it.

“Enough!”

Yet, the women don't listen and this is where Kaz's fault lies. They begin to disobey – similar to Governor Bennett's rule of Wentworth. They tell her to fuck off. To take the high road.

And no, that simply will not do.

It hurts Kaz to see people -- _women_ \-- suffer.

"We will not have any violence against women so long as I'm Top Dog," Proctor declares. She's booming loud.

She interferes. Shoots off like a bottle rocket and stands in between them. In the distance, by the basketball hoop, a ghost watches them. Her name is Joan Ferguson and she embodies the sound of silence, a hollowness that infects your jailbird soul.

Somehow, Proctor gets distracted. A tattooed woman drags her broken nails down Kaz's wrist. She grits her teeth and doesn't scream. Doesn't lag. As a reflex, her bicept flexes. She squeezes the arm that's a snake belonging to another body.

Kaz blames herself for the direction – for the magnetic dark eyes in the back of the crowd, watching, waiting, baiting.

Being Top Dog is all about constructing a particular image. How you wish to be perceived. Being Top Dog is about control. For Kaz, her control is waning, her time is running out. The discourse ends as soon as it all began.

A no name guard ushers the group back inside.

In the hallway, Proctor spies Ferguson shuffling along, maintaining her ruse as the fabled spirit to haunt these corridors. She doesn't look at the toothless tiger that bristles, these concrete walls trapping a wild spirit. Instead, Joan walks and talks – the quip a bullet in disguise.

“Losing grip, eh? A pity, truly.”

So little words manage to pack a punch.

“We need to talk,” Kaz demands.

Four dreaded words.

Confrontation's one hell of a beast, angry and relentless

Emotions are a messy affair. A crisis in conscience makes for a monumental downfall. Kaz looks worn, the skin around her throat taut and red. She almost shouts and spits ' fuck you. ' Through action, she leads. Proctor pulls Ferguson into the bathroom. Locks the door behind her. Outside, her crew stands watch.

Or perhaps it's Joan who leads Proctor here in this closed space.

Inside, the lights are yellow, their faces a mask of deliberate exhaustion. Damaged people recognize their own. The teal jumper makes Kaz's eyes pop electric blue. Now, it's hard to pretend that Ferguson is a ghost. She's flesh and blood standing before her. Her hair falls over her shoulders, a dark curtain to signify the end game.

_Twelve years. Make it count._

The thought eats away at Kaz's bleeding heart. She tries not to wince; she tries her best to stand tall. Her sharp and narrowed gaze falls to the arm guard that encompasses Joan's scarred hand, her wrist, her redenned fingers. The scars will be ugly; will it match what's inside?

Proctor looks death in the eye. She has no fear of suffering the same fate as Bea Smith. Little scares her.

“You fucked this up, Joan. Not me.”

She uses her name and not the detached state of the surname.

An impending derailment: that's what Karen is. All emotions, no consequence.

“You did this. You killed her,” Kaz continues, as bold and unrelenting as ever.

 **Translation:** _you killed this._

A golden legacy ruined, Joan allows Kaz to continue from the top of her soapbox. Again, she watches and waits, bides her time until the tirade runs its bloody course. She stands tall, her wounded arm crossed over her chest.

“You fucked me over, Joan, but that's not what I care about. Not at all,” Proctor reasserts by repeating herself.

Sometimes, repetition serves a purpose. Today, it assures Joan that this woman is a jigsaw puzzle that's been hopelessly scattered across the board.

“Karen. Ah, forgive me, _Kaz_.” A deliberate slip up. “Allow me to interject: you cannot stop the inevitable.”

The smoke from Joan's voice envelopes Kaz. She wants to choke. To gag. Never has a woman made her feel this way before.

“You make everyone hate you. Don't you?”

Joan looks down at her.

“I redact my former statement. You are a declawed kitten. You have no bite.”

Hypocrites are torn down by their own fire.

There's a violence in Karen that Joan knows for it shows in herself.

In a quick strike, she squeezes Joan's hand, the one still covered by a wrist guard that covers the skin, freshly pink and scarred (imperfect, ugly, _freakish_ ). It hurts to remember, it hurts to bear. Joan flinches. Kaz stops herself.

' _Hurt people, hurt people._ '

Those are the words of wisdom issued by Dr. Westfall. Though hardly wise, more of a cheap crack at a fortune wrapped up in a cookie.

Joan lets Kaz touch her. There's an unspoken agreement to the gesture, the almighty act of retribution. She lets Proctor get it out of her system, noting the way that her shoulders sag. It's tiring, carrying the weight of the world – this prison – on your shoulders.

Kaz recognizes a hurt woman when she sees one. Defeated, she shakes her head.

“You know something? I cared about you, Joan. You've a real fucked up knack for pushing people away.”

Joan teases with the promise of justice. It almost has Kaz stumbling back. As Iustitia incarnate, she reaches out to the blond. The mirror catches their image and plays it in reverse. Her wounded hand rests on that sallow cheek. She ignores the pain; pain is a necessary evil for the greater good.

“Don't. Don't touch me,” Kaz says in a quiet voice, reminiscent of the little girl hiding underneath that tough exterior.

Trauma always has a way of crippling you at the most inconvenient times. Dark eyes follow Kaz's hands. It's easy to lose yourself to the abyss. In solitude, she's different. There's a vulnerable intimacy there.

“Remember what you told me?” Proctor already knows the answer. “I'll never _leave_ you,” Kaz whispers, a cheeky grin betraying the hurt in her eyes.

“Have I left your side? I remain loyal to you. With you,” Joan stresses, laying the snare down, her thumb stroking Kaz's trembling jawline. She wipes away the tears that collect along her skin.

There is a vulnerability from childhood that settles inside the blonde. It's taken root and driven her passion. Her motivation is her pain: her need to protect and to be protected.

It's easy to pluck at the strings of the harpsichord that is Karen Proctor.

 


End file.
